


catalyst

by cokuns



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Ambushes and Sneak Attacks, Enemies, Gun Violence, Insane Wilbur Soot, M/M, Morally Ambiguous Character, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Unresolved Tension, Villain Wilbur Soot, no beta we die like men
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:07:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28048188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cokuns/pseuds/cokuns
Summary: "Killing Schlatt wouldn't fix asinglething." He curls his fingers into a fist, feels his nails dig into his palm until it stings, uncurls them.The festival is tomorrow.Tonight, then."It wouldn't matter if you killed him or not."Wilbur's not sure who he's trying to convince.
Relationships: Jschlatt/Wilbur Soot
Comments: 8
Kudos: 123





	catalyst

**Author's Note:**

> hello; yours truly has returned with more schlattbur, but with the added perks of Morally Grey content.
> 
> i'm awful at tagging, but i will say this involves guns, violence, unhinged characters (again), a frankly unsettling amount of talk about fire and implied character death – or not, you can decide for yourself.
> 
> yes, i am aware that the festival happened eighty millennia ago but i still have not emotionally Moved On from it.
> 
> as always, this is about the in-game personas, please don't ship the actual creators. go watch their content and support them!
> 
> feel free to yell at/with me in the comments about the ending! enjoy :,)

Without sufficient oxygen, a fire cannot begin, and it cannot continue. 

—

"Killing Schlatt wouldn't do anything."

Wilbur says, pacing outside their makeshift home, cutting off Tommy's agitated reasoning. He can see how eager Tommy is to fight (God, Wilbur sees his past self in this gangly, overexcited martyr of a child sometimes), tendons practically vibrating with extra energy and his jaw tense, shoulders square.

He can see it imprinted clearly in his mind: Tommy and him on top of a neighbouring building, Tommy’s deft fingers loading his crossbow with Spectral arrows, Tommy aiming directly in between Schlatt's eyes.

"Killing Schlatt wouldn't fix a _single_ thing." He curls his fingers into a fist, feels his nails dig into his palm until it stings, uncurls them. 

The festival is tomorrow. _Tonight, then_.

"It wouldn't matter if you killed him or not."

Wilbur's not sure who he's trying to convince. 

— 

It started from a long time ago, Wilbur supposes. Going around, looking for a fight to get the kicks he needs, running solely on the adrenaline that only the danger of a good duel could fuel, coming home bruised and bloody but satisfied.

"I mean it, Wilbur." Technoblade sighs, gentle fingers fastening the last of the bandages. He's been doing this for months now, tending to Wilbur's wounds after he comes back fighting Heaven-knows-who without so much as a word of complaint or a single inquisition. 

(“ _Sparring_ ”, his arse. Does Wilbur take him for a fool? Deep gashes and gaping lacerations, far too _many_ of them to have spawned from friendly dueling.)

"What?" Wilbur mutters, snatching his arm back and feeling strangely defensive, overly prickly and ready to justify himself with prepared excuses. He feels stripped bare, hollow to the core because he knows, he _knows_ , that Techno has always been able to see through him despite his best efforts to remain aloof.

"You need to stop setting yourself on fire, man." Techno says with an air of finality, snapping the first-aid kit shut. He stands and pushes his chair out, the floorboards creaking in protest. He levels his eyes with Wilbur’s. His gaze almost looks….pitiful, Wilbur thinks. He hates it, hates how Techno speaks in riddles all the goddamn time, hates everything.

"No one's going to be there to watch you burn." Techno turns and leaves, his crimson cape dragging and catching against the tiny wooden splinters on the floor.

(A pity then, for the lanterns of Wilbur’s lungs have caught on fire, and there is no turning back.)

—

It seems that Schlatt predicted the ambush. 

Wilbur thought he had been so slick, so subtle, waiting for nightfall to trail across the presidential chambers, hunkering behind the pillar of the entranceway to his room. 

There's a reason he didn't tell anyone about his little "nighttime walk". If he were a better person, a better man, he wouldn’t do this. He thinks of Tommy, of Techno, of Tubbo – Christ, sweet, kind-to-a-fucking-fault Tubbo that would never last more than a _week_ under Schlatt.

Schlatt’s leather shoes clack on granite flooring as his fingers tap his side in some sort of rhythm. He stills as he rounds the corner, Wilbur pressing himself into the wall with bated breath, his palm sweaty around the tight grip on his gun. His eyes flick to the very pillar where Wilbur is, and he takes a step closer.

"Fancy seeing you here, Wilbur." Schlatt’s voice is amused, almost fond.

And this, _this_ , is what Wilbur lives for: the shrill screech of his instincts – like an overflowing, boiling kettle – telling him to _fight_ when Schlatt rounds on him, trying to back him into a corner. He packs all of his weight into an uppercut that connects with Schlatt's cheekbone and sends him reeling.

"I swear to God, I _will_ fucking shoot you-" Wilbur’s voice is horase as he cocks his gun and points it right at Schlatt's head. He doesn't even finish before Schlatt is aiming up and delivering a solid hit to the side of his head. Stars spawn behind his eyes and streak across his vision as Wilbur desperately shakes his head.

In that moment Schlatt has stumbled to his bedside drawer, and in one swift movement, has his own Glock trained on Wilbur. _His hands don't even shake_ , Wilbur marvels.

"I should have expected this." Schlatt spits. One hand comes up to smear at the blood on his cheek, and he prods at the already-forming bruise. Schlatt hisses and sucks air through his teeth. "You do pack a good punch, though. Concussion from that, at the very least." He smirks. "Wanna do it again?"

At the back of his mind, Wilbur had been hoping, praying, that maybe Schlatt would fight back hard enough, batter him vicious enough for Wilbur to cede, so he wouldn't have to do this. "You fucking _bastard_ \- will you just shut the fuck up for once?" Wilbur snarls.

Schlatt rolls his eyes. "What, did Dream send you? Playing God again, promising you a country? Coming here, to fucking assassinate me in the middle of the night, thinking I wouldn't be fucking prepared?” He scoffs. “Or was it Alex? That _motherfucker_ , I knew he couldn't be trusted." Schlatt's says, tone accusatory as he twists his jaw.

"What, no, _no_." Wilbur frowns. "I'm here, to end it for you once and for all." His finger twitches on the trigger, slippery with sweat and mineral oil.

"Oh, darling William playing the hero again, killing the bad guy?" Schlatt mocks, lips curving into a slight smile that looks positively _lethal_ under the soft illumination of torches. He lowers his gun and takes one step towards Wilbur. Wilbur retreats one step in turn. _Stupid_ , Wilbur thinks, knowing that Schlatt will always have the upper hand, even at the cusp of death.

"I'm not a hero, not this time." Wilbur grits out, bringing up his other hand to grip the gun in an attempt to steady the furious shaking. _I never was a hero_.

"No? Wilbur Soot, General and president – _ex_ -president, in fact, with a fucking hero complex, not trying to save the day again?" Schlatt's voice gets louder, more caustic with the weight of everything in between them, as he taunts, eyes ablaze with something akin to madness as he moves closer.

"I'm the fucking villain here, Schlatt. You’ve done nothing, _nothing_ , but ruin this fucking country.” Wilbur says, trying to keep his voice level.

Schlatt laughs, sharp and acrid like how acid corrodes metal, like the bile at the back of Wilbur's throat. For a moment, Wilbur sees towers of lava, their world reduced to nothing but flames, and that same laughter that threatens to burn through his ribcage from inside out. 

He blinks once, and the memory is gone.

Schlatt's still laughing when he tosses the gun behind him, the metal clattering off the bed onto the floor. "This, oh _God_ , this is what it's come to. It started with the two of us, now it'll end with the two of us." Schlatt says, still chuckling in a way that feels so derisively uncomfortable, like Wilbur's innards are being scraped bare.

He moves closer, closer - and Wilbur can do nothing but watch, transfixed. Schlatt presses up right up against Wilbur, until the cool barrel of the gun meets his temple. He looks up; the blood making him look like some kind of unhinged, feral animal. Schlatt exhales, a puff of air on Wilbur's neck.

He smiles, all terrible, ravaged, and fucking _beautiful_ , like how a car crash is glorious in the most grotesque way.

"That's what you want, isn't it? To be a villain?" Schlatt's voice is threadbare thin now as he maintains his gaze on Wilbur. He swipes his tongue across his teeth, raises his eyebrows.

“Go on, then. Shoot."


End file.
